


Breath Of Life

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Companion Piece, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel is a bastard, Gift Fic, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, aziraphale is glad crowley's not a mind reader, brief torture mention, though crowley would defnitely approve of his thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: When Crowley heals Aziraphale of an occult injury, a certain angel finds himself dealing with a slew of feelings and thoughts that would make the devil blush. Of course the devil in question would most likely be delighted - but Aziraphale isn't about to tell him.Or, the one in which Aziraphale realises where and with whom he belongs.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119





	Breath Of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miraworos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/gifts).



> This is a companion piece to [The Arrangement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375358) and though it can be read as a stand alone, it will make much more sense if you read that first.
> 
> A gift for my lovely beta [Mira Woros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos), who put the idea in my mind of seeing the healing scene from Aziraphale's point of view. Of course in order to surprise her I had to forgo her amazing beta skills, but I hope it passes muster anyway!!

**Alkborough, England, 1020**

* * *

The surprisingly luxurious pillow was soft and soothing against Aziraphale’s cheek, while the thick blankets were warm enough to stave off the chill of the unseasonably cold night. For a moment, he felt safe, cocooned in a place without duties or deadlines or errant meddling boys with the unexpected power to leave him vomiting blood on the floor of the local manor.

Aziraphale usually eschewed sleep. He’d once chided Crowley that virtue is ever vigilant (to which Crowley had retorted that evil never sleeps, thus the sleep-loving demon must not be entirely evil and perhaps Aziraphale might deign to have dinner with him that night?) Exhausted from coughing up blood, he could suddenly see the appeal. 

His warm reverie lasted all of five minutes before he was beset with anxiety. He had to complete the blessing, or he would be facing a disciplinary. Heaven had been rather strict lately, and Aziraphale’s habit of helping humans was, contrary to what he’d assumed when first stationed on earth, not well tolerated.

He’d had one disciplinary before, during King Arthur’s reign. Sometimes it still hurt if he took too deep a breath, or moved too quickly. Officially it had just been a verbal reprimand, but it turned out Gabriel had devised a method for using words to direct energy in a way that left the recipient gasping for breath, as stabbing pains tormented their ribs and sternum.

There was nothing for it. He could be up and moving in no time if he just used a little willpower. Heaven kept insisting he needed to be tougher. Here was a chance to try.

Before he could open his eyes, however, the energy in the room shifted, like a muggy afternoon clearing after the crispness of a good thunderstorm. Aziraphale could barely repress his smile. Crowley. He would know the demon’s energy anywhere, ever since he first encountered it in Eden. Tart and tempting as the forbidden apple, and warm as woodsmoke. Truth be told, it was the most comforting thing Aziraphale knew.

Suddenly he felt like perhaps everything would be alright after all.

As he listened to Crowley explain about the angel feather (blasted Gabriel leaving his feathers as tokens to bless the lowly humans, as if they should grovel with gratitude for them), he felt his insides knotting tighter and tighter. He shouldn’t be here. Not only was he risking Gabriel’s wrath, but he was putting Crowley at risk too.

“Why do you think I never invited you to my dwellings?”

Crowley asked, as if the answer ought to be obvious. As if it would be clear to anyone with decent abilities of deduction. Of course, Aziraphale realised. It was easier for the demon to hide himself, than it was to hide an angelic presence as well. Aziraphale had simply never given it enough thought. He’d assumed Crowley never invited him to whatever place he was currently calling home because he wanted privacy, or simply didn’t feel any inclination to share his personal space with the angel. 

As for staying hidden, Aziraphale had naively assumed Hell didn’t interfere too much in Crowley’s life so long as he was, as he’d said outside Camelot, seen to be doing something.

When a violent coughing fit interrupted his cogitations, Aziraphale dimly thought, through the haze of pain in his chest and head, that Crowley was right. He couldn’t go anywhere, at least not until he was somewhat patched up. He settled himself back against the pillows, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was practically clinging to the blanket to stop himself from twisting his fingers in that nervous way he found so hard to stop.

He wasn’t afraid of Crowley. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stay still and calm and refrain from reacting when Crowley examined him to find out the damage. The thought came, unbidden, of a certain night in Rome. A night when far too much mulsum had been imbibed, and there’d been laughter and gentle teasing, and somehow Aziraphale had found himself stroking Crowley’s hair, which shone like garnets and felt soft as silk. Aziraphale had been much more mindful since that night, never drinking more than he could handle without giving in to the urge to touch Crowley.. 

Perhaps that was when he developed the nervous habit of twisting his hands together, to prevent them from reaching out for blood-red hair and warm gold-tinted skin.

Crowley had no idea about his urges, or at least Aziraphale hoped Crowley had no idea. He could only imagine how the demon would tease him if he knew that Aziraphale was drawn to him like a compass needle swinging to its true north, caught in a magnetic imperative from which he had no desire to escape.

As for the danger it might put Crowley in … that didn’t bear thinking about.

But, he needed Crowley’s help, and so Aziraphale steeled himself and tried not to dwell on the fact that having Crowley’s energy inside him was likely to be an experience he could never be truly prepared for.

There was a tense moment of silence before Crowley began, and then Aziraphale felt Crowley’s energy sliding into his own, like a green shoot pushing through soft snow. His body came to life in a way he’d never known, as if Crowley was breathing joy and vitality into his spirit.

A gasp of pleasure fell from his lips before he could stop it. Had Crowley heard it? Of course he’d heard it. Any doubt in Aziraphale’s mind was quelled by the feel of Crowley drawing back slightly in response to the sound. When he risked a glance at the demon, Crowley looked perfectly calm. But there was a tightness around his eyes as if he was concentrating hard, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw him bite his lip for a second as if to stop himself speaking. Trying desperately to keep his breath calm and even, he wondered what, if anything Crowley had felt during the act.

Before he could decide whether to speak or not, Crowley was pushing his energy back into him. Aziraphale let him, feeling his own energy shift and rearrange itself around Crowley, accommodating him. Suddenly the only coherent thought in his mind was a single word.

_Taken._

Oh, dear Lord. That would never do. It would be mortifying if Crowley knew, if he sensed how that word made Aziraphale feel, how it made him want to lie back in the bed and …

Aziraphale tried desperately to steer his mind anywhere else, struggling against the urge to let his essence reach back and explore Crowley’s, twine with him, discover how it felt to share the deepest, most intimate caresses.

When his unruly thoughts presented him with a vivid image of his own energy parting around Crowley’s like a flooded river bursting its swollen banks to let more water pour in, he struggled to suppress a full-body shiver. He closed his eyes quickly, lest his gaze give anything away. Somehow that was worse, leaving him no distracting little details in the room to focus his attention on. But at least it prevented him from accidentally looking at Crowley with the craving - no, call it what it was - lust that was burning through him so fast he was quite certain it was going to scorch him from the inside out.

Aziraphale was skilled at talking himself into and out of things when needed. He knew he was a master at dissembling - working with the Archangels had taught him to disclose only what he must, blur the details, say the right thing even when not quite believing it.

He’d spent the better part of his life convincing himself that what he felt for Crowley was friendship. Camaraderie. A natural inclination towards the only other immortal he’d passed any real time with. Of course he’d known he was papering over his feelings. He wasn’t a fool.

But now, with Crowley’s demonic essence sliding deep into his body and exploring the very heart of his own energy with careful, measured strokes, it was impossible to keep up the pretence. Every excuse he’d ever made was burning up, incinerated by the feel of Crowley moving inside of him. Crowley blazed brighter than any of the stars he’d once made, and it was all Aziraphale could do not to be blinded by his infernal light.

The shard of energy was buried near his heart, the symbolism of which was not lost on Aziraphale. They talked quite calmly as Crowley worked - at one point Crowley went on a glorious tangent about using a knife to steal milk - and Aziraphale was glad of the distraction. As Crowley’s energy got closer to its target, Aziraphale’s mind decided to torment him with vivid images of what it might be like to open his eyes and invite Crowley closer. His mind swam with visions of long fingers pushing his tunic up, the better to press heated kisses to his chest and stomach, of Crowley’s strong hands parting his legs to press closer to him, impossibly close, until they could do nothing except join together. He could almost taste the heat of Crowley’s mouth against his, swallowing the moans he knew would fall from his lips each time the demon touched him.

Aziraphale bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper, to keep from groaning aloud. He could feel his cheeks flushing as surely as if Crowley could see the erotic images filling his mind like multi-hued ink swirling into water, lending it colour that hadn’t been there moments before. Crowley was still talking calmly, and Aziraphale wondered if it was a distraction for him too. He listened carefully, wondering if the tiny catches in the demon’s voice were simply his imagination. 

Then Crowley’s energy located the shard buried near Aziraphale’s heart, and started to gently draw it back and out of him. The tenderness with which he did it made tears well up in the angel’s eyes. There was a gentle tugging sensation as Crowley drew his energy out, as if it had snagged on the exit point, as if it was as reluctant to leave as Aziraphale was reluctant to let it go. Then it was over, and Aziraphale felt adrift, unsure whether he wanted to cry at the loss, or give in and beg Crowley to come back, to enfold him, to surround and penetrate him in every possible way.

But he could do neither, and so he swallowed his feelings and gave Crowley a polite smile. The demon smiled slightly in return, and though nothing was said, Aziraphale knew somehow that it would be alright if he did. That Crowley would not reject him.

It was still too dangerous, of course. But for the first time Aziraphale felt completely confident that his affection - love, don’t be a coward - for Crowley would not be unwelcome. And he knew that he would always carry the feeling of Crowley’s essence pressing so close to his heart where, if he was but brave enough to admit it, it belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are fuel for hungry authors - I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> The next fic is already underway! Meantime why not check out some of my other fics. So, what are you in the mood for now?
> 
> Delicious pining with a happy ending, featuring an account of Crowley's fall and some true!form sex? Try [The Heart Asks Pleasure First](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23352145).
> 
> More true!form deliciousness, featuring a cosmic meet-cute between a star-creating Throne and a gentle Principality? Check out [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192903).
> 
> Sweet post-canon Tadfield adventure, featuring an ensemble cast, a little magical summoning, Tracy finding her place in the world, and Crowley being good with kids? Try [Darksome Night and Shining Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579987).
> 
> A little gentle emotional hurt/comfort, featuring a loving Aziraphale helping Crowley through his trauma from the burning bookshop, and guest appearances from Madam Tracy and Anathema? [In These Flames](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623877) could be just right for you.
> 
> In the mood for something longer, featuring a long slow burn, stolen kisses, and so much angst and fluff and sweetness you might need to watch your blood sugar? Dive into [All The Seasons Of My Heart.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640552)
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://zadusk.tumblr.com) \- I'm always up for talking about Good Omens!


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